“You sure about that?” How she wished he hadn’t blown out the candle so she could see his face.
He paused, one leg in the bed. Then he laughed, climbing all the way in. “I might have stormed a little. I find I am quite protective where you are concerned.”
Miranda turned on to her side, feeling warmed by his words, and smiled into the darkness. Andrew pressed against her, one hand coming to rest on her breast. She didn’t argue or complain, only took a deep breath and snuggled into him more. “You sure the duke doesn’t mind us intruding on his day?”
“Nonsense. There will be hundreds there, and he offered a room. You will like his duchess.” Andrew’s voice started to fade off with a yawn. “Besides, being newly in love himself, he believes everyone should be.”
“And are you? In love?” she whispered, uncertain if she wanted the answer.
A long silence fell over the room, and she feared he might not answer. But, eventually, in a hushed voice, he said, “I believe I might be.”
Chapter Seven
Four weeks never passed so fast. The morning after Andrew confronted Daniel, the announcement appeared in the morning paper. Banns were read at the local parish near their homes the following Sunday. The footman sent to deliver the news to the parson stayed to gauge the reaction of the same girls who had taunted Miranda in town, and those who had believed the earl would never make good on his contract to marry Miranda had returned with news of their shock, and the delight of the townsfolk of the upcoming nuptials. Miranda had been overjoyed and somewhat ashamed that she cared what the other girls thought.
“I promise, everyone will believe this is a love match,” Andrew had told her.
The simplest touch of her hand on his cheek made it impossible to stand from the breakfast table that morning. His cock was harder then he remembered it ever being. Of course, he couldn’t remember his lust being unfulfilled in years either. Now he stood before the parson with Andrew’s three closest friends by his side. The new Duchess of Foxhaven had insisted she and the duke should delay their honeymoon until after Andrew’s wedding, and the duke, completely infatuated with his wife, did nothing but acquiesce to her wishes.
Andrew couldn’t believe the change his life had taken—all the result of a punch to the nose. Miranda took his breath away in a pale cream gown, her hair like a fiery halo, pinned up in a Grecian coif with tendrils framing her face. She’d broken with tradition and asked her aunt to walk her down the aisle.
“You came.” His voice seemed huskier than normal. Although he’d believed she would, a small part of him—the part that felt guilty for the pain she had been through—had worried she would give him what he believed he deserved and stand him up at the altar. Relief flooded through him, allowing his shoulders to relax as a weight lifted.
“I did.”
She glowed with an inner beauty that blinded him. Joining hands, they faced the minister, whose lordly voice rang out to the standing-room-only wedding in his church. Andrew should have listened more closely to what the man had to say. But, in truth, his entire focus stayed directed on Miranda.
Since the announcement in the paper, he had been the ultimate gentlemen, escorting her and Sarah wherever they wished to go. He attended every ball Miranda received an invitation to. Her joy in being invited overruled his desires not to go. And the hostesses invited her to every single blasted ball held, as were the other House of Lords wives. The ton clambered to meet the new wives and claim an association.
He hadn’t known true frustration until two weeks earlier, when Miranda’s well-mended ankle finally allowed her to dance. He’d gritted his teeth when men, eager to fill her dance card, swarmed and demanded her attention.
“The waltzes are mine,” he had said in a loud tone, daring any of the young whelps to test his stake. And Miranda had danced beautifully, never missing a step, and after each waltz, it required every bit of his self-control not to throw her over his shoulder and find a private room in which to claim her innocence.
After one particular dance, he’d found needs so blatantly obvious, she’d had to walk him off the dance floor and guide him to the well-lit garden patio. His hand had clutched the stone railing until the rock cut into his palms.
“Why are you waiting?” she asked. “I am yours for the taking, if you will but have me.”
“You have waited twenty-plus years for me. The least I can do is wait a few more weeks for you.”
She grazed his cheek with her lips, bestowing the softest and most chaste of kisses. “You are very sweet, but you hide it well.”